


i felt you in my life before i ever thought to

by halcyonlight



Category: RWBY
Genre: College AU, F/F, Happy Valentines Day!!!, SOULMATES they're still soulmates, spinoff / deleted scene from TWoM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 16:14:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17790626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halcyonlight/pseuds/halcyonlight
Summary: It all rushes back at once, a blur, a hurricane: the way Yang touched her, the way it ripped the universe apart, the way she lit a match and caught their lives on fire. There’s no going back from this. Blake doesn’t even want to think about the possibility.[This takes place during my other fic, The Weight of Memory, when Yang & Blake are in college. You don't need to have read it :) ]





	i felt you in my life before i ever thought to

**Author's Note:**

  * For [explosivesky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/explosivesky/gifts).



> happy valentine's day!! this is for erin, who requested the scene from my other fic, [the weight of memory](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17537228/chapters/41321618), when blake and yang start officially dating in college. in other words, no angst. yay! this takes place the day after they sleep together for the first time.

_nineteen_

Blake wakes up in the mid-afternoon, sunshine pouring in through her dorm room window and spilling across the floor, and stretches, a single thought floating through her mind: _everything is different now_.

Happiness lingers, a floaty, bubbling feeling coursing through her veins. For a solid minute, she can’t remember why. And then she rolls over in her twin bed and Yang is everywhere. Sleeping on her stomach, golden hair tangled and fanning across her back, a single strand blowing as she exhales in her sleep. Below all her hair, Blake can just barely glimpse the dark fan of her lashes, a faint scattering of freckles across her cheekbones, fading from the summer. She’s wearing one of Blake’s old tank tops, a loose-fitting burgundy muscle shirt, and her arms are folded under the pillow.

It all rushes back at once, a blur, a hurricane: the way Yang touched her, the way it ripped the universe apart, the way she lit a match and caught their lives on fire. There’s no going back from this. Blake doesn’t even want to think about the possibility.

“Belladonna,” Yang mutters without opening her eyes, and Blake jumps. “Why are you staring at me?”

“I’m, um - I’m not.” Then she sighs, caught. “Okay, maybe, um… maybe I am. There’s not a lot of other places to look.”

Yang cracks open one eye, pale lavender, and smirks. “How ya feelin’?”

“I mean…” Blake rolls under her back, pulling the blanket up to cover half her face, to hide her smile. It’s still glaringly obvious in her voice. “Pretty good.”

“Yeah, I bet you are.”

“We slept for a _really_ long time. I hope you weren’t planning on going to the rest of your classes today.”

Yang sits up, shaking her hair out of her face, combing it with her fingers. The tank top rides up her back; without thinking twice, Blake runs her fingers across the bare skin, warm to the touch. Yang stiffens, then relaxes, looking over her shoulder, down at Blake. Her smile is slow.

“Blake,” she says. “I’m not planning on going to class ever again. Actually, I’m not planning on ever getting out of your bed.”

“Good luck explaining that to Weiss. Remember, she’s planning that whole ‘back to school’ thing tonight?”

Yang makes a noise of disgust, turning back to face Blake, crawling over her body. “I’m not leaving.”

“Not even to drink?” Blake raises herself up onto her elbows. Yang leans forward, lips brushing Blake’s forehead. “I’m thinking we make an appearance, drink for a little bit, whatever… and then come back here. I mean, if you want. It’s - it’s just… easier, I mean, because I have the single room…”

Yang grins, all sunlight, and traces her fingertips across Blake’s collarbone. “Yeah, that sounds good. You’re gonna have to cover these up, though. Or wear, like, a turtleneck. Maybe a parka.”

“Is it that bad?” Blake sits up, craning her neck to see herself in the mirror over her dresser. At least four hickeys trail along her skin, bright red against pale white. She doesn’t dare pull her cami aside to see how far down they go. “Oh… oh my god. A vampire attacked me.”

“That’ll be our cover story.” Yang winks. 

Blake sinks back down onto the bed, smiling shyly over at her. There are a million questions she wants to ask, but she half-knows the answers anyway; the air crackles, her heart flutters. Slowly, she loops her arms around Yang’s shoulders - she’ll pull away, definitely. She’ll stand up. She’ll leave. Blake braces herself, forearms tense.

But Yang leans closer, sighing low in her chest, and her hands find Blake’s waist. It’s not rough, never rough; her grip is gentle, steadying, like a heartbeat, a whisper of reassurance.

“So basically,” Yang says, lips brushing Blake’s cheek. “I’m thinking we should be together forever.”

Blake smiles and it’s automatic, it’s inevitable. Her muscles relax and she pulls Yang closer, breathing her in. “Basically,” she says, “I agree.”

When Yang kisses her, more sure than ever before, it feels like the planets clicking into alignment. It feels like a sigh from the universe: _finally. Finally, we’re coming home._

-

The party is disorganized, which is saying something since Weiss is in charge. Everyone crowds into Yang and Weiss’s room, music blaring from a portable speaker, cans of PBR and Blue Moon covertly stacked under Yang’s bed so they could be hidden easily if need be. The lights are off, candles laid out strategically across both of their dressers. There’s a thunderstorm coming and the overhead lights kept flickering anyway.

“Are you sure this is safe?” Blake asks, raising her voice to be heard over the rain pattering against the windows. She’s already finishing her third Blue Moon; Yang knows she’s nervous, chugging her drink just to have something to do with her hands, and she wants to hold her hand _so_ badly, but she also knows that might not be the right move. “Having all these open flames?”

“What do you mean?” Weiss asks, pulling a bottle of Don Julio out of her suitcase, smuggled from home. She’s told Yang multiple times over the years that she’d rather die than be seen drinking “hipster college beer.”

“Well, Jaune might trip and set this whole place on fire.” Yang shrugs.

“Hey!” Jaune calls from Weiss’s desk chair, looking affronted. 

Weiss rolls her eyes. “The candles create atmosphere. By the way,” she says, as Ilia and Pyrrha squeeze through the door, searching for places to sit in the packed room, “this party will operate on a rolling basis. That means if you’ve been here for fifteen minutes already, you have to rotate. Leave and do something else - get vending machine snacks or something - and if you’d like, you can come back after another fifteen.”

Yang digs an elbow into Blake’s ribs. “This is the worst club I’ve ever been to,” she stage-whispers.

“I agree,” Blake says, hiding a smile. “Not worth the cover charge.”

Weiss points at Yang, narrowing her eyes. “The two of you.”

“Yes?” they ask in unison. 

Jaune and Pyrrha exchange a significant look.

“Out,” Weiss says. “Get out. You’re sickening. You’re affecting the energy of the room.”

“They don’t have to leave just because we-” Pyrrha begins.

“No,” Yang interrupts. “It’s okay. Weiss, I’ll go if you let me have a tequila shot.” She grabs one of the shot glasses from their dresser, pale blue cut glass, another item plundered from the Schnee estate.

“I don’t know if that’s the smartest decision,” Ilia says warily, watching Yang’s already-unsteady movements. “You’re gonna just… unleash them on the world like this?”

“Against my better judgement.” Weiss passes her the bottle and Yang pours herself more than she normally would have; it almost sloshes over the rim. Fortunately, everyone’s distracted now, discussing some drama concerning Ilia’s roommate; Weiss probably would’ve murdered her for wasting the expensive shit. Yang knocks the shot back fast, realizing too late that she doesn’t have anything to chase it with.

Blake’s looking at her with soft, sympathetic golden eyes; Yang meets her gaze and makes a disgusting gagging noise.

“That was so gross.”

“Here,” Blake says, handing her the almost-empty Blue Moon can. She bends to grab another one from under the bed. “Finish that. It’s not going to taste great, but at least it’s something.”

“Okay.” Yang wrinkles her nose and downs the rest of the beer, watching Blake watch her. Her cheeks are flushed with rose, lashes fluttering when she blinks; she’s pretty, she’s _so_ pretty, and Yang will absolutely not survive the rest of the semester unless she somehow convinces Blake to date her. Or to marry her. One of the two.

_Maybe I’m drunker than I realized_ , she thinks, licking her lips. Blake’s eyes follow the track of her tongue. 

“We’re leaving,” Yang says. She means to call it out to the entire room, raising her voice over the rain, over the chatter, but it comes out low and only to Blake.

“Okay.” Blake smiles agreeably, plucking the shot glass out of Yang’s hand. “Pour me one first.”

“Are you sure? It might be fancy, but it’s still a little bit disgusting.”

“I can handle it.” Yang pours, and Blake swallows it fast, determined; Blake’s t-shirt slips off her shoulder when her head falls back and Yang can’t tear her eyes away from the marks on her collarbone, dark red like lipstick kisses, a reminder. She gulps.

Blake hands the glass back to Yang, adjusting her shirt, smile flashing. “Let’s go,” she says, so softly Yang almost doesn’t hear.

-

Back in the quiet of Blake’s room, the storm is more noticeable. Lightning cracks through the sky before either of them can hit the wall switch and they both stand there in the semi-dark, momentarily stunned by the white flash; for a moment, it’s as bright as daytime.

“You scared?” Yang asks slyly, definitely not trying to cover up the fact that she’s the one who’s scared. Because she’s not. Not even a little bit.

Blake flicks the light switch, grinning. “Of a storm? No, weirdo. Look, if you want to get the taste out of your mouth…” She slides open her closet door, bending down to drag out a case of LaCroix.

“Oh noooo,” Yang wails, making an X with her pointer fingers in the direction of the drinks. “That stuff is _evil_. It tastes like how a ghost would experience juice.”

“It’s good for you.”

Yang drops her hands, frowning. “Is it actually?”

“I have no idea,” Blake laughs, tossing her a can of the mango flavor. “But it’s a pretty good chaser.”

“Okay,” Yang says reluctantly. She pops open the tab, watching Blake shove the case back into the closet, when something catches her eye buried amongst the sweaters and coats. “Hey, you have a guitar?”

Blake freezes, her back to Yang, black hair tumbling down her back. “Oh. Yeah, I do. You’ve never seen it before?”

“No, I haven’t. Do you… do you _play_ or something? Or is it just decoration?”

“Yeah, Yang,” she laughs. “I keep a whole-ass musical instrument in my closet for the aesthetic.”

“Well, I’ve known you for like, years now, and you’ve never told me!” Yang exclaims, defensive. “What other secrets are you harboring, Belladonna? Your parents are actually spies? You’re a natural blonde? You’re in love with Jaune?”

“Definitely not. To all three of those.”

“Now you have to play for me.” Yang takes a sip from the can - reluctantly, she has to admit that it’s not that bad when compared to tequila shots. “I demand it.”

“Yaaaa-aaang,” Blake complains, looking nervously between her and the guitar. “I… I can’t.”

“You can’t play?”

“No, I mean, I _can_ \- well, I’m not very good or anything. But I’m… um, I’m too drunk.”

“Please, Blake?” She pouts, crossing her arms. “I’ll do something for you in return.”

“What, you’ll juggle or something?”

“No, dumbass.” It hurts to insult her, even if it’s a joke; Yang walks over to Blake, cupping her face in her hands, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. She doesn’t go further, just waits to see, curious, and sure enough, Blake’s the one to swipe her tongue across Yang’s lower lip. They fit together perfectly, Yang’s hand on her hip, Blake’s arms loose around her waist. “I’ll do something better,” Yang finishes.

“Fine.” Blake sighs heavily, breaking away. Yang claps her hands and immediately sits at the foot of Blake’s bed. She pulls the guitar out of the closet. It’s a rich cherry wood, engraved with designs in white and gold on one side.

“What’s on it?” Yang asks. Blake settles on the other end of the bed, cross-legged, guitar in her lap.

“It’s a Gibson Hummingbird. This is their, like, trademark,” she says, running a finger over the pattern. Birds, trumpets, flowers. “My parents gave it to me when I graduated high school.”

“I just can’t believe I never saw it before.”

“I don’t like to play in front of other people.” Blake strums the strings gently, and the rich, sweet sound combined with the rain and low rumbles of thunder makes Yang feel at home. “It’s… a little weird. It makes me feel weird.”

“You don’t have to play anything for me if you don’t want to,” Yang says.

“No, it’s fine. Hey, here’s a song you might not know,” Blake says, completely serious. “It’s called Wonderwall.”

Yang bursts out laughing, tossing a pillow at her. Blake pushes it aside and strums the chords, E minor into G, and Yang’s eyes widen.

“Whoa. You can actually play?”

“Marginally. I taught myself in college, the basic chords and stuff. It came kind of… naturally to me.” She pauses, like there’s more she wants to say, but lets her voice fade out. She slides her hand down the neck of the guitar, adjusting the capo. The chords change. 

“Oh, you’re so _gay_ ,” Yang says, recognizing the song.

Blake just smirks - she’d never be this cocky sober - and looks down, fingers moving across the fretboard automatically, plucking the strings, playing by heart. Her dark hair falls in front of her face. Yang doesn’t actually expect her to sing, but when she does, her breath catches. Blake’s voice is low, like a whisper, like a chill down her spine. The lyrics are familiar: _If you be my star, I’ll be your sky / you can hide underneath me and come out at night / When I turn jet black and you show off your light / I live to let you shine._

Yang stares at her strumming the guitar and cocks her head to the side, lips parted. There’s something in a corner of her mind, vague, soft, but persistent, absolutely desperate for her attention. She thinks of a glittering skyline, a burning candle. But then the images vanish and she shakes her head; they were never really there at all. There’s an ache in her chest. A love greater than time can hold.

Blake pauses, hands stilling. “Are you… crying?”

“No,” Yang says. She blinks fast, willing the tears away; the room is blurry. “I think I need to drink more.”

“Yeah?” Blake’s lips curl into an adoring smile. She sets the guitar on her bed, leaning forward to brush her fingertips across the back of Yang’s hand. “I think I…”

She trails off. Yang imagines a million possible endings for that sentence. There’s only one she keeps coming back to, one that sticks, snags in her mind: _I think I love you._

“C’mon,” Yang says. “Come with me.”

“Okay,” Blake says easily, without question, like she’d go anywhere with Yang if she asked. “Are we going back to your room? Good luck getting Weiss the bouncer to let us in.”

“No. We’re going to watch the storm.” Yang jumps off the bed, slipping into a pair of Blake’s flip flops; they’re so small that her heels hang over the back and they look absolutely ridiculous with the rest of her outfit, tight blue jeans and a white crop top. She tosses her hair back and sneaks a look at Blake, who’s toeing on an old pair of gray Converse.

“We can’t just watch from the window, huh?”

“No,” Yang says again. She leans against the door, watching Blake grab a hairbrush from her dresser and run it through her hair; it spills like black ink, glossy, over her shoulders. “Play more for me later, though.” Her voice is almost pleading.

Blake smiles, lacing her fingers through Yang’s. Her face flushes rosy pink. “Okay. Maybe.”

-

The wind is howling, tossing the trees, bending them, sending leaves whirling and scattering like a tornado. They stand together by the first floor door, staring out the window glass at a storm-tossed sky It’s so dark it’s almost purple.

“We could get struck by lightning,” Blake says, but there’s no fear in her voice. She’s just being conversational.

“We could.” Yang wraps her arm around her waist, pushing the door open with her other hand. Her skin brushing against Blake’s feels enough like electricity. Enough to power a city. “But what a dramatic way to go, right?”

“You’re crazy,” Blake says, but she’s the one who takes the first step outside. She feels Yang hovering behind her on the edge of uncertainty. Blake splashes down the cement steps, dodging an enormous puddle forming on the ground, and spins around to face Yang, arms spread wide.

“Is it cold?” Yang asks.

“Nah,” Blake calls. She closes her eyes and tilts her head up to the sky, imagining her meticulously-applied mascara running in streaks down her face. Whatever. Maybe she’s drunk - actually, _definitely_ she’s drunk - but her love for Yang feels like a physical weight pressing on her chest, constricting her lungs, and the only thing left to do is touch her. Otherwise, she might never breathe again.

Blake holds out a hand, water dripping from her fingertips. Yang’s shoulders relax. She laughs, leaping down the steps, sprinting through the rain, catching Blake in her arms. They’re both drenched to the bone in seconds. Yang lifts her, spins her around before setting her back on her feet, both of them laughing. Blake swats her on the shoulder, but it’s gentle, light.

“You could’ve dropped me.”

“Like I would ever.” She winks, all bravado. “I’m strong.”

Her white tank top clings to her wet skin, paper-thin and almost translucent. Blake imagines peeling it off, tossing it aside. The image lives behind her eyelids permanently, well-worn like an old photograph: Yang in her bathroom back at home, standing under the waterfall of the shower, wet hair impossibly long, and the blazing look in her eyes. The shift she felt under her feet as the entire universe changed its direction. 

Blake closes the distance between them, one hand trailing up the back of Yang’s neck and tangling in her soaking hair, the other hand tight on her waist, and kisses her hard. Yang sighs into the kiss, melts into her; the September air carries a chill, a wind that ripples down Blake’s spine and makes her shiver, but their bodies pressed together are like fire. Thunder rumbles, a comforting background noise. All she hears is the pattering of rain on the pathway, on the stairs, and Yang’s breathing, fast but steady, her fingers pressing into Blake’s back. 

She always feels like she’s making up for something. Every time they kiss or touch. It’s a tug in the pit of her stomach, a tap on the shoulder, a whisper in her ear. The voice is familiar - it’s herself, Blake knows it. She’s reaching through time, reaching through space, desperate, carried on the wind: _don’t leave her. Don’t you dare leave her alone._

They break apart, panting; Yang’s shoulders rise and fall, and Blake stares at her, fighting to keep steady. Her hands slip to Yang’s waist, thumbs tracing back and forth in a familiar pattern.

“So you know earlier,” Blake says, conversational, as though nothing ever happened, “when you said you thought we should be together? Was that, like… was that you being… or was it…”

“Blake Belladonna,” Yang says theatrically, twining her hands through Blake’s wet hair. She blinks, long eyelashes sticking together in little points like stars, lilac and soft. They’ll be like this forever, for the rest of their lives, surely they will - so confident, so bright, so electric, never afraid to say a single thing to each other. Blake’s spent years looking over her shoulder, anxiety prickling down her spine, holding her breath. She looks up at Yang and lets the breath out. 

“Yeah?” she asks. Thunder crashes, further in the distance now, and it might as well be the sound of her heart.

“I’m your girlfriend,” Yang says point-blank, so certain that Blake almost laughs - because _yes_ , yes, of course. “Right? That’s… that’s what we’re doing now?”

Blake smiles, wide and sure - she’s never been more sure of anything. “Only if I’m yours.”

-

The rest of the night blurs. It’s happened to Blake before when she drinks too much too fast - a whirlwind, a hurricane of fear, her body pushing herself through discomfort until she can finally try to relax. But this is different. Everything is golden and lavender, crackling, sparkling. Everything is hilarious and right. Everything is Yang’s hand in hers, warm and secure and holding her steady.

They do more shots in Yang’s room, making fun of Weiss, chatting with Pyrrha. When Yang slips up and reveals that Blake has a guitar in her room, Jaune runs to grab it, strumming the wrong chords, singing loudly. He _actually_ sings Wonderwall, because of course he does, and it sends Blake and Yang into hysterics. Blake slips off Yang’s bed.

“Oh my god,” Weiss says, voice dripping with disdain. “You just fell on the fucking floor.”

“No I didn’t,” Blake says indignantly from the floor.

Yang folds her arms and shoots Weiss her fiercest look. “Don’t be mean to my girlfriend.”

The room goes silent, Jaune’s last terribly-played chord hanging in the air. Ilia’s jaw drops. Even Weiss is quiet.

“Oh,” Pyrrha says finally, politely. “Are we Facebook official now?”

“This is the girl I’m gonna marry,” Yang blurts out because she’s about six shots deep. She points at Blake, still sitting on the floor, in case anyone needs clarification. 

“Alright!” Jaune exclaims, genuinely thrilled. He strums a celebratory chord. “Listen, I’m here if you need a wedding musician.”

“Don’t encourage them,” Weiss says, but Blake doesn’t miss her smile - it’s rare, but genuine.

They leave the room in a whirlwind - Blake doesn’t remember standing up, and at first she’s confused until she realizes it’s because Yang picked her up in a bridal carry, her arms and legs dangling. She kicks off her soaked Converse shoes; they’re already falling off anyway. As soon as Yang and Weiss’s door slams shut behind them, Blake hears a wildfire of conversation, spreading, growing in volume, excited bursts of laughter.

Blake tilts her head back, trying to meet Yang’s eyes. “Are you gonna carry me over the threshold?”

She’s laughing; Blake can feel the vibrations through her chest. “Only if I can figure out how to open my door.” She fumbles for the handle, Blake trying to be helpful by adjusting herself, but that only prompts Yang to yell at her, “Belladonna! Quit wiggling around!” Finally, they’re crashing into Yang’s room, door slamming behind them, and neither of them even turn on a light. The curtains are open wide, moon hidden behind clouds, but the room faces the street, sending in blurry yellow lamplight, warm and wavering through the rain-streaked window. 

Yang dumps her unceremoniously on the bed. 

“That was romantic,” Blake laughs, stretching her arms up, hands coming to rest behind her head. The ceiling is tilting like she’s on a ship, Yang looks blurry and everywhere at once, but she knows what’s going to happen next like it was written in her subconscious. Yang bends over, the ends of her wet hair tickling Blake’s cheeks, and presses their lips together. The kiss is deep and passionate immediately - she’s not fucking around, not at this hour, not when they’re both finally getting it right - and maybe if she were sober Blake would think this was sloppy, their mouths angled against each other, tongues brushing, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t.

“Yang,” she pants, pulling back, grabbing her face. It’s important, it’s so important that she say this right now. “Yang. I have to tell you…”

“What?”

“You kiss me like you love me.”

Yang laughs on an exhale, eyebrows raised, surprised. “Yeah, Belladonna.”

“No one’s ever…” Blake trails off, biting her lower lip. She can feel the tears pricking at the backs of her eyes and she will not pull on that thread, she will not unravel, not now. “Never mind. I just…”

“Blake,” Yang says gently. She pulls off her own tank top, throwing it to the floor, then reaches for Blake’s shirt, raising her eyebrows; Blake nods, and Yang peels it off, adding it to the pile. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. I know you.”

_I know you_. Blake blinks back the tears - she doesn’t know how right she is. 

“Touch me,” she whispers, and Yang doesn’t hesitate. She flicks open the button of Blake’s jeans, still damp from the rain, and pulls them off with an aching slowness, fingers sliding up Blake’s thighs incredibly gently. There’s a softness in Yang’s eyes that she only ever glimpses sometimes in hidden moments and she takes a picture with her mind - she can’t stand to lose it. 

The way Yang touches her almost brings her to tears again. She’s awake, she’s so intently concentrating, and there’s nothing urgent like the first time. _We have all night,_ Blake thinks, settling into the thought with a smile, and then jolts: _we have the rest of our lives_. It’s almost too much, it’s too lucky. She could never have all that. Lightning never strikes twice.

She’s soaking wet and shivering and breathing deeply, rocking her hips; Yang’s fingers are inside her, moving slowly, steady. Both of her hands trace the ridges of Yang’s spine, heat radiating from her skin, and she unhooks her bra on the first try, letting Yang pull it off the rest of the way and throw it somewhere in the dark room. They both laugh for no real reason. 

Blake tangles her hands in her golden hair and pulls just gently, just to see, and Yang’s laugh breaks off abruptly, turning into a low moan that sends a rush of heat pooling between her legs. Somehow, Yang just _knows_ how to touch her - when to be gentle, when to speed up, when to trace slow circles until she’s frustrated to the point of wanting to scream. Right before she comes, Blake blurts out “I love you, I love you,” and she isn’t even embarrassed; before her eyes fall shut, she catches a glimpse of Yang smiling wickedly above her, lavender eyes flashing, hair wet and tangled, and it burns into her eyelids, it burns forever.

When she catches her breath, Blake hauls herself up into a seated position, working on the zipper and button of Yang’s jeans, and her eyebrows shoot up.

“Blake,” she says, caught so off-guard she apparently doesn’t think to use a nickname. For some reason, the intimacy sends a shiver down Blake’s spine. “You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want-”

“Do _you_ not want me to?” Blake asks, fingers stalling immediately. She kind of doubts it, since her hand is half-pressed against Yang’s underwear and she’s almost unbelievably burning hot and wet to the touch, but still.

“No, god, please, please, I’ll die if you don’t, I’ll _literally_ die, I just wanted to make sure-”

“Okay,” Blake says, catching Yang’s lips in a kiss, laughing against her mouth. “Okay, drama queen. I got you.”

Yang sucks in a breath at her words, pressing closer, and Blake _meant_ to pull her jeans off, but it’s becoming increasingly apparent that there’s really no time. She slides her hand under Yang’s underwear, jaw falling open at the sensation of her fingers slipping against her, soaking wet in seconds. One, and then two; Yang’s arms wrap around her shoulders and Blake kisses her everywhere, biting and sucking up her neck, leaving mark after mark, _let_ her _try to figure out how to hide this shit in front of our friends._ Yang rides her fingers, hips rocking, moaning, and when she starts saying Blake’s name with increasing volume, Blake almost blacks out. 

Finally they collapse onto the bed, still intertwined, Yang still wearing her jeans, both of them breathing heavily. Yang laughs, her face buried in Blake’s hair. 

“I need to take a shower,” she says. “My hair’s gonna be frizzy and gross if I sleep like this.”

Blake grabs a water bottle from her bedside table, taking a few long gulps, thinking. “I’ll come with you,” she says finally, trailing a hand down Yang’s arm. “If that’s… I mean, is that okay?”

“Are you kidding?” Yang grins. She can’t stop touching Blake, can’t tear her hands away from her; they trail down her bare back, fingertips pressing into her waist, trailing over her hipbones. Blake doesn’t want to get up, because if she does, surely it’ll end. But she leads her to the bathroom and Yang doesn’t let go, running her hands up and down Blake’s arms.

The shower takes a minute to get hot. While they wait, Blake stands back as Yang wrestles herself out of her jeans and underwear, feeling a fondness for her past self - just before Christmas that one year, standing under the spray of water, kissing Yang for the first time and praying that it wouldn’t be the last. They’ve come so far. They have so much further left to go.

Blake’s started to sober up a little bit, but she’s still drunker than Yang, so Yang washes her hair for her, gently and innocently rubbing her scalp and rinsing out the shampoo and conditioner. Blake rests her head on Yang’s shoulder, letting herself hover on the edge of asleep and awake. The bathroom is hot and warm and almost cozy, the mirror fogging up; when they step out, wrapping themselves in two of Blake’s dark purple towels, Yang traces a finger through the steam, writing. _I <3 U forever._

“How come you spelled out forever?” Blake laughs when she sees it, pressing a kiss to Yang’s shoulder. “That’s the longest word.”

“Because it’s the most important word,” Yang says, in a voice that implies _duh_.

Blake puts on her most comfortable pajamas, and Yang roots through her dresser, coming up with an oversized black t-shirt and nothing else. They fall asleep like that, Blake’s arms wrapping around Yang’s waist, the last wave of the storm washing over campus and sending gentle rain pattering against the glass, and that word echoes in Blake’s ears. _Forever._

 

**Author's Note:**

> the song blake plays for yang is "boats and birds" by gregory & the hawk :)


End file.
